


Trouble

by orphan_account



Series: Marvel Cinematic Universe [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Short One Shot, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: P!nk's video for'Trouble'+ Bottles of various alcohols =This.(Also known as the one-shot that was created because Jeremy Renner is incredibly hot in the video for 'Trouble' and alcohol is known for lowering inhibitions. Enjoy. (Also, it's short because I'm drunk and going on holiday in the morning.)





	

My horse's hooves kicked up dust as I approached the nearest settlement: something I focused on instead of the jarring pain that each cloud of dust accompanied. Just a few more minutes and I'd be in the approaching town...Sharktown. Evidently it was a small place - I couldn't see more than a few houses - but hopefully one of the ninety-four people who lived here would be a doctor.

I slowed my horse to a trot, carefully scanning the main street for an apothecarists or a doctors. Despite the time of day, there was no-one around to ask. A man who leaned back in the shadows, an old lady in black who crossed herself at the sight of me, a terrified little girl, and the blond sheriff: standing on a roof and watching my progress through the town. Other than that, this place was a ghost town. But with no other choice - _I needed to get my leg seen to by a doctor, now_ \- I urged my horse forward. If there was no obvious sign of a healer around here, then I'd ask at the tavern. Someone in there was bound to know something. I hoped.

But obviously, the course of my life never did run smooth.

The saloonwas filled with men who ignored my limp - in fact, me who ignored me entirely: not even bothering to apologise when they drunken stumbled into me, nearly causing me to fall to the sticky, alcohol-soaked floor. By the time I'd made it up to the bar, I was more than just a little irritated...and more than aware of the handsome blond man who'd sidled in here after me. Somehow I didn't think that the good sheriff was here to help me.

 

"Does there happen to be a doctor around her? A pharmacist? Any kind of medical practitioner?"

The old barman looked thoughtful for a few seconds, before nodding: "You'll be after Doctor Banner. He should be in some time around noon."

"Well then, I'll guess I'll just wait. Any chance a girl could get a drink around here?"

 

The barman looked over my shoulder...looked at the sheriff.

I didn't know what the sheriff did: I didn't much care. All I knew was that after looking to the sheriff, the barman denied me that drink. And I was not happy about it...I was bloody, I was in pain, and I hadn't had a stiff drink in almost a week.

All I wanted as a glass of whiskey. But if I couldn't have that...a decent fight might go someway to distract me from the pain in my lower thigh.

 

"We don't serve unaccompanied young women here."

 

Carefully, I shrugged. And then I leapt over the bar. The old man never saw it coming - a punch to the nose, and he was stunned enough that he went right over the gleaming wood of his own bar. My plan after that had been to get a stiff drink...but then there was one of the cowboys who decided to try his luck, and I couldn't just let it go. He, too, was quickly and easily dispensed: a sharp upper-cut to the jaw, before I grabbed his collar and pulled him forwards: delivering a hard blow to the bridge of his nose with my forehead.

Then...and then there was another one. And another. I fought my way through the crowd, both the average punters and the sheriff's men: punching, ducking, and kicking my way through the crowd. With this much adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I could barely feel the wound in my leg. This was better than any stiff drink.

Several cheers rang out from the women lounging on the stairs, amused to watch their punters get the shit kicked out of them. As glad as I was that someone was still enjoying this, the adrenaline was starting to fade and my leg was starting to throb again. This fight was going on too long: I needed to bring it to a close - and soon. And with my options being arrested, or leaving under my own steam...I started fighting my way towards the door. And it was going fine.

Until a bottle got smashed over my head: and everything went black.

  

   

  

* * *

  

           

 

I woke up in a jail cell, my leg bleeding sluggishly through it's bandages. There was nothing in the cell that I could use to rebind the wound: even my only other co-inhabitant wore only his long underwear.

 

_Well, fuck._

 

All of a sudden, the door of the cell was occupied by a familiar figure. The sheriff: "Well now, pretty lady, that's a nasty wound there."

"Not helped by being thrown around." I retorted, sitting up and rubbing at the fresh bruises littering my skin: "Thanks so much for that."

"Well, if you hadn't started a fight..."

"Well, if I'd been given that drink I asked for..."

 

The sheriff looked assessing for a few moments, his brow furrowed as he thought. Meanwhile, I was doing some thinking of my own.

Undoubtedly, the sheriff was a good-looking man. The blonde hair, slightly dishevelled, tanned skin, and mysterious eyes were all something that made me want to...well, it wasn't a subject for polite thought. But then, with those arms, all notion of polite thought went out of the window - I wanted to trace those muscles over and over, see them flex as he -

 

"You're a feisty one, aren't you, Miss...?"

"You can just call me Trouble."

A bright grin flashed across the sheriff's face: "Sheriff Barton. Or Clint. So, why are you here, Trouble?"

I gestured to my leg: "Got shot. Bullet's out, but I can't stitch a wound like this. Sharktown was the nearest place I might find a doctor."

"'Fraid the doc's out of town. But I can stitch a bullet wound."

 

 _Now this was an opportunity_.

 

Hobbling slightly - _not attractive!_ \- I made my way over to the door of the cell, pouting slightly: "Oh, sheriff, you wanna get your hands on me?"

 

Despite still smiling, Clint Barton merely rolled his eyes at me, and unlocked the cell door. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he led me to one of the chairs opposite his desk: going into another room to collect a needle, thread, and bottle of brandy, before coming to rest in the chair next to mine.

With steady hands, he used the brandy to sterilise the needle and my wound, before threading the needle and handing me the rest of the alcohol. I knew I'd need it - already the area was stinging like a bitch and making me want to swear a blue streak. Even so, I bit my tongue while Clint was sewing; no need to make the man jump when he was stitching me up. My only recourse was the occasional swig of brandy, and my nails digging into my own palm.

Clint kept up a mindless stream of chatter - about how I was being brave (and didn't that make me want to roll my eyes, him treating me like a child), about how he was almost finished, and how cleanly I'd managed to remove the bullet. Finally, after five agonising minutes, he was finished, and I slumped back in my chair. 

 

"Next time, I want the doctor." I muttered, running a tired hand over my face.

I was entirely ready to go to sleep...but then my knight in shining armour lightly ran his hands up my thighs, a smirk in his tone: "Oh? You're going to dismiss my abilities out of hand, before I properly get a chance to... _put my hands on you_."

 

I perked right up.

 

"Hmm..." I murmured, letting out a low moan when Clint's arms slid under me, lifting me onto his desk and wrapping my arms around his waist: "Well. Perhaps you should convince me not to do so."

Clint smirked against my mouth: "Oh, I fully intend to."


End file.
